


vicious cycle

by ohmyvalar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous Identity, Character Study, Credence Centric, Dark, If y'all feel a tag is missing please tell me and I'll add it!!, M/M, Manipulation, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyvalar/pseuds/ohmyvalar
Summary: He'd seen it all; loud, aggressive perpetrators and cowering victims, crying, desperate perpetrators and victims who pretended to be angry instead of scared. Sometimes the victims became the perpetrators themselves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Suicidal thoughts in this chapter, please be careful

Night descended around the city like a heavy cloak, sweeping through the streets and quieting the bustling and loud streets. The tall buildings that surrounded the area, uniform and foreign in the day, became towers that loomed over men, casting the spell of darkness in shadows across the concrete.

Credence pulled his coat tighter around him as the chill of the night air swirled around him like a taunting spirit. His mood darkened as he thought of what his Mother would say. _This is the work of a witch. They're all around us, trying to harm us._

As he turned a corner that brought him closer to the House, Credence felt a heavy gaze on him. A chill very different from the cold weather shot down his spine. 

This area, he well knew, was not known for its low crime rates. Rather, in his years living in the House with Mother, he had seen many men and women partake in the vicious cycle of crime. He'd seen it all; loud, aggressive perpetrators and cowering victims, crying, desperate perpetrators and victims who pretended to be angry instead of scared. 

Sometimes the victims became the perpetrators themselves. 

Credence has never thought much about how he would fit into this cycle. He knew where he would be placed all too well.

The thought of quickening his steps left his mind as soon as it occurred to him. No. Even the fear of pain and mutilation could not hasten his return to the House. What was one pain to another? 

_They're all the same. It doesn't matter. Nothing does._

As Credence continued to walk, head low, back hunched, the ground beneath his booted feet slowly changed. Recognizing the patterned stone tiles and lightless street that led the way to the House, the boy imagined the darkness at the end of the road swallowing him, until he became nothing at all. 

Maybe then he would be untouchable to Mother. 

Pausing at the wooden black door, the portal into the House, into darkness and pain, Credence sensed the eyes watching him again. With hesitation, he turned to look. 

There, under the last of the streetlights, stood a man. 

Illuminated only by the weak glow of the lamp, Credence could make out no more than a coat and the two ends of a scarf falling past the man's belt. The mysterious man's face was hidden in the shadows, but the intensity of the gaze that bore into the boy's skin made him unmistakable. 

He had followed Credence here. Why? The House, though massive, did not look either wealthy or prosperous or even welcoming, though he supposed a robber would not care for that last one. 

For the children, then? That did not make sense to the boy either. On the surface, Mother's adoption of multiple children did not raise suspicions. For that reason - and because the adoptees were mostly relation-less and pliant to Mother's wishes - the adoptions were always approved. What could the stranger possibly want with them? 

He contemplated questioning the man then and there, but the aura surrounding the man stopped him. The man was dangerous. He could not have said why, but he knew it instinctively; the way he always knew when Mother was getting ready to ask him for the belt. 

_A witch._

The idea popped, unbidden, into Credence's mind. That would explain things; Mother was vocal about her hatred of witches. Recently, she had even began to make plans for organized gatherings to spread her teachings. 

Maybe a witch had caught wind of Mother's acts, and was here to punish her. The thought sent a terrifying jolt through him. He had not experienced such vivid emotions for as long as he could remember, except during his Punishments. 

But no. If the mysterious man really was a witch, he might not care that other children dwelled in the House with Mother. He might punish and hurt them all together with Mother, and Credence could not allow that. Especially not Modesty, she had only just arrived, _she was only so little..._

Regardless, the man had already learnt the location of the House, with how easy Credence had made it. If he really was a witch, there was nothing any of them could do... Unless Credence... 

_No._ Panic surged in him as he struggled to suppress his emotions. _Mother would..._

The streetlight sputtered, growing brighter for a split second. Credence glimpsed a sharp jaw and dark eyes before the lights went out completely. A shiver ran through his veins; it might have been a trick of the light, but he could have sworn that the man's gaze had doubled in intensity in that moment. 

Forcing himself to look away from the mystery man's gaze, Credence pulled open the heavy door and passed through the doorway. 

As the familiar darkness consumed him, Credence tried to banish his thoughts to the back of his mind. He could hear Mother's footsteps already, thudding down the stairs. She would not be pleased. He was late, tonight. As he stood at the foot of the stairwell, looking down blindly at the floor, he heard her dangerously soft voice in the air. 

_'Credence...'_

Later, as the white hot pain of the belt came whipping down, Credence allowed his mind to fill with the blasphemous thoughts he had tried to suppress. 

_I want the Witch to punish Mother. I want him to save the children and take them away from the House._ Something in his blood surged dangerously. His fingers twitched erratically. _No. I want her to love us. I want her to love me. I want her to stop talking about witches._

_I want all this to end._

-

He noticed the pills sitting on the shelf of the kitchen on a grey morning. In the night, it would have been impossible to see them, nor anything else in the kitchen - the lights, when on, were so dim that they created more shadows than illumination. 

The label on the pill bottle, scrawled in ink, read _Arsenic._ Credence knew what arsenic was. He had seen advertisements for the cheap poison stuck on brick walls and lampposts. He did not doubt that some buyers used the poison for more sinister means than riding homes of pests. 

Credence did not know if the pill bottle was new, and he very much doubted that Mother - for it was she that ordered and checked every item brought into the House - had obtained it to kill rats in the House. Mother did not care for the cleanliness of the House, at least not outside of her private quarters. 

He did not know what Mother planned to do with it either. He was afraid to find out. 

He recalled the advertisement slogans. _Just a few pills..._

Looking carefully around, Credence reached out to take the bottle. Mother tested them, sometimes. Left an extra cookie for the little ones on the dining table, and watched for the disobedient ones. Then came the inevitable Punishment. Mother liked to seem as if she were all-seeing, always watching in the House. 

Satisfied that he was alone, Credence hesitated for a moment more before stuffing the pill bottle into the folds of his coat. 

_She'll never find out this time. Not until it's too late._

The little defiance sparked a fire inside him, a dangerous rebelliousness. Above the boy, the dim lights flickered once, and then went out. 

-

The road back to the House was dark and cold as usual, but tonight, Credence felt none of his usual dread. 

Instead, visceral images and thoughts filled and overflowed in his head, as the cobblestones thudded under his booted feet. 

_When Mother sees... She'll be sad, won't she? Or angry, she's always angry first... And then she'll panic and feel for a pulse, and then she'll rush me to the hospital and Modesty..._

The thought of his youngest sister was a sobering cold bucket of water on his fantasy. If he died, what might Mother do? What if she transferred his Punishments onto Modesty, and he was no longer there to protect her? 

_No. No. No._

Unconsciously, his footsteps quickened. With his thoughts occupied with unspeakable horrors, he barely registered his surroundings. 

The sudden impact threw the boy's back against a wall. He slid to the floor as his legs gave out. The pill bottle, which he had fished out of his coat at some point and held in his hand, fell to the ground with a clatter. 

As Credence watched in silent terror, the glass bottle shattered, scattering the pills all over the ground. It was over now, Mother would find out and then he would be Punished for theft, a clear violation of her Rules...

The frame of the perpetuator bent down into view. Two ends of a scarf appeared before Credence, long enough to reach past the man's belt if he had been standing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting.
> 
> A/N: italics update, next chapter soon, I promise :')

The man - the Witch, the boy realized with dawning horror picked up a pill between two fingers pointedly, as if the object disgusted him. Credence shrank away from him, cornered and afraid. 

More than the scarf, the man's aura confirmed his identity as the mysterious man with the heavy gaze. Up close, the Witch's presence smothered him; he could sense the power lying dormant in the man's body. He held no doubts that the man was a real witch now. 

In his turmoil, he had not recognized his surroundings. But now he realized that he must have taken a wrong turn or two, and ended up in a dark alleyway. 

It was almost too much of a coincidence for the Witch to have ended up here, too. 

With growing resignation, Credence accepted that the man must have followed him here. 

'Arsenic,' the Witch said quietly, solemn enough that the boy hurried to bow his head in submission. 

He knew that tone. Mother used it sometimes, too, when she wanted to show how disappointed she was in him. Before, when he had not understood what Mother really wanted, he had tried to defend himself to assuage the guilt that rose up in him. Now, he knew better; Mother never wanted explanations, only Punishments. 

It was better to lower his head and accept it. Crying and pleading only increased the torment. 

A hand on his shoulder made him jerk in his position against the wall, squirming in an attempt to escape. _No. No. No._ Mother was right after all, witches were evil and unnatural, _they were the same as her, they would hurt him..._

'This is poison.' 

Shaking the blasphemous thought away, Credence raised his head slowly, wary like an animal, at the Witch's words. Dark eyes bore into him, into his soul, into the darkness that lurked and rested within, reflecting the darkness in the Witch's own.

'You knew.' The Witch whispered. Credence's heart skipped a beat before its thudding accelerated. Fascinated, he did not look away. 

When it became evident that the Witch expected a reply, Credence stuttered out his answer. 'I... Yes. Mother... I mean, t-to get rid of the pests.' 

The Witch raised a bushy eyebrow. His eyes saw everything that Credence tried to hide. A faint tingle sparked at his shoulder where the Witch began to rub circles into his coat. 

Warm waves of serenity swept over the boy. His eyes fell shut, hungry for and savoring the foreign emotion he was feeling. _Comfort._ That was what the Witch's touch meant. 

Suddenly, he did not feel eager to get away from this strange combination of alley and witch. 

What more could happen? The pill bottle had been destroyed, and he was most certainly late now, with this delay. Mother would deliver his Punishment. 

_But maybe... Maybe if he could stay here for a bit longer... If he could make the Witch stay, if he could feel this comfort for just a while more..._

Gradually, Credence relaxed under the Witch's mesmerizing spell. The Witch rewarded him with a small smile that the boy squinted to make out in the darkness. _Approval._ His heart soared, dangerously high. 

'You knew this was arsenic. Did you want to take the pills, Credence?' The use of his name was a pleasant surprise, but it did not alarm the boy, in his pleasure-muddled mind. 

The Witch was questioning him, but he already suspected the answer. Mother did this, too, asking him things she already knew he had done. It was a test, another test. And there was only one right answer. 

'Y-yes...' Credence replied truthfully, bowing his head again. Submission, that was what they always wanted.

It was the only thing he could give. 

He braced himself for the flare of rage, for the blow. He could take it. He could endure the pain if it meant he could have the comfort, too. 

The Witch cursed under his breath. Credence shied from the ugly sound. Immediately, his companion reassured him in soothing tones. 'No, no, I'm sorry. It's okay. You're okay. I'm angry, but not at you.' 

The hand patted his shoulder, a grounding weight. Credence felt the tingling spark against his skin through his coat and shirt, before the warm sensation flooded him again. He resisted the urge to lean into the Witch's touch. 

He didn't want to be clingy. Mother hated it, and he had a feeling the Witch would, too.

_He remembered a time when he had been little. He had tried to hold Mother's hand, just like the other children on the streets did with their parents. But Mother had evaded his attempts and even slapped his hand away._

_However, the growing hurt and confusion could not overwhelm his desire for acceptance. He had tried, one last time, presumptuously pulling the handbag from Mother's stiff fingers and replacing it with his hand._

_He would never forget the ice cold look that she pierced him with as she said, 'Stop being so clingy, Credence. I don't like disobedient boys.'_

Drawing in a breath and burying the memory, Credence forced himself to stay still. 

The Witch continued to talk. '...could have died, boy. Someone with potential like yours... I will not allow it. Credence, can't you see? You are special; to die is to squander it, squander your lineage.' 

Oh, he was a talker, Credence could already see. He might be a little disobedient boy who knew nothing, but he knew a talker when he saw one - Mother was one too. More than wisps and shadows of evidence, it was her voice and aura that drew the believers in. The Witch could talk and his words would shape themselves into perfect ideas, his voice honey and cloying. _But in the end they all - They never really cared -_

Wait. _Special._ The Witch, someone from the mystical, unreachable magical community, had called him special. Clarence felt his heart rate speed up at the tantalizing praise. His throat was dry as he asked, afraid to be contradicted, 'Special...?' 

The Witch's expression went blank momentarily, then softened. 'Yes, special, my boy,' the man continued, his tone firm but soft. 'You have magical blood in you, don't you, Credence? Come, let me show you.' 

The hand left his shoulder to reach out to Credence palm out. Immediately missing the calming touch, the boy only hesitated for a moment before placing his hand in the Witch's outstretched one. 

As the man closed his warm hand around the boy's, Credence couldn't help but realize how the Witch's hand dwarfed his own, how his long fingers slipped between his thumb and index finger and stroked him. 

He wondered if this was what all those children on the streets had felt, holding their parents' hands. Protected. Cherished. _Loved._

_Don't be clingy. Don't ruin this._

With considerable difficulty, Credence restrained himself from squeezing tight. 

Slowly, with his free hand, the Witch rolled up the sleeves of Credence's shirt and traced over the beginning of the boy's scars with sickening familiarity. Despite his yearning for the man's touch, Credence reflexively wrenched his wrist away. 

_No. No. No. He_ promised, _I'm special to him, he wasn't angry at me...!_

Fear clouded his thoughts as he stared up at the Witch without meeting the man's eyes. The element of surprise had allowed Credence to escape from the Witch's grasp, but he knew he would not be able to do so again. 

The darkness of the alleyway was almost complete now, but even so, Credence could sense the dark emotions radiating off the Witch's frame. The gathering fear grew into full out panic. 

Credence ran, aimlessly. All he knew was that he had to escape from the darkness in the Witch's aura, so horrifyingly similar to his own. 

As he ran, he thought of Mother's reaction at his late return. Mother never slept. He could feel the belt raining down on his back again, the fearful anticipation, and then the visceral pain... 

At the thought of the lost bottle of pills, Credence let out a despairing cry into the night air. He shouldn't have hesitated, _he should've just ended it right there, so why was he even bothering to run away now-_

'Because you want to live, Credence.' 

There were arms wrapped around his shoulders, and a familiar, warm hand on the back of his head, nudging his mouth down over the man's shoulder. His body tingled all over wherever the man touched him. His senses breathed in the familiar aura of the Witch and he knew in his hearts of hearts that the man spoke the truth. 

A shuddering sob ripped its way out of Credence's throat. Immediately, that warm, large hand strokes over the back of his head, grounding him. Disgusted with himself and bewitched by the man before him, Credence sank his teeth into the Witch's shoulder to stifle his noisy sobs. 

He felt the Witch's frame tense around him, before the man was murmuring wondrous, incredible things into his ear. 'Shh, shh... You're so special, Credence. More than your false Mother will ever know. I will give you what you deserve, boy. I will bring you into the community, and teach you how to harness your magic.' 

The words rang in his head with such magic and promise that Credence never remembered to ask for the Witch's name, nor for what he wanted in return. 

They always wanted something in return; Mother had took him because of his lineage, as an errand boy and for something more sinister, he feared. 

But that night under the belt and Mother's anger, Credence had something Mother could not know to take away. 

When the white hot pain lashed at him, his visions were filled with fantastical, heretical, magical things. He dreamt of escaping the House and standing before Mother, tall and strong and no longer afraid. He dreamt of standing beside the Witch and facing down Mother, ending her lies and violence forever. 

For the first time, he had obtained hope, and it had illuminated the House around him, widened his tunnel vision. 

Later, biting his teeth against the pain as he undressed for bed, Credence found the bottle of arsenic, whole and unbroken, tucked into his coat pocket. 

Placing it on the bedside table, he thought once more about what he had planned to do. 

_Because you want to live, Credence._ The words rang in his head, a siren's call. 

And he did. He always had, had always dared to think about escaping the House one day. It hadn't been enough. But now, the Witch had shown him a path; not only to freedom, but also strength and power. 

His decision made, Credence made sure that Mother was busy in her quarters before creeping down the stairs towards the kitchen. 

His eyes, though long adjusted to the constant dimness, should not have been able to pinpoint the exact original placement of the pills. But the time he had spent agonizing over his decision has engraved the memory into his mind. Without error, Credence replaced the bottle of arsenic onto the shelf. 

Exhaling, he let out a breath he had not known he was holding. Somehow, this strange ritual of stealing and replacing without Mother's notice had erased the bottle's temptation from his mind. He knew that the poison, nor any other method to a quick death, would no longer have a hold over him now. 

Satisfied with his completion of the ritual, Credence turned to go.

-

From a cabinet in the kitchen, a little girl with blonde hair climbed out. In a childlike but steady voice, she asked the now empty kitchen air, 'What were you doing, Credence?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The higher you fly, the harder you fall...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: italics update :')

Months passed before he next heard from the Witch. 

The first days after that first fateful meeting, Credence roamed the streets, searching for any sign of that long scarf. It was far from a distinguishing piece of clothing, but it was the best he had. 

He knew he should be patient, that the Witch was probably busy; he had had the aura of an important man. Importance in men and women was often coupled with danger, either perpetrated by or inflicted on them, as Credence had learnt. 

Still, the burning desire to see the Witch again was only aggravated as the weeks passed without event. 

At the start of the second month with no sign of the Witch in sight, Credence became desperate. Risking his curfew, the boy roamed the streets in the night, searching for any signs of the man. 

But his searches proved fruitless. 

In the confusion of their first meeting, Credence had not even known the location of the alley in which they had met, and he did not know it now, though he revisited it in varying levels of realism in his dreams. 

Though Credence was confident in his ability to hide his emotions from the other occupants of the House, he should have known that Mother would sense something was wrong. 

Where his siblings looked away at his hunched and withdrawn frame, Mother gave him her usual look of frowning disapproval and looked closer. 

'Are you hiding something from me, Credence?' She had interrogated one night after Credence excused himself from dinner to bed. 

He had paused in resignation on the steps of the staircase leading to his lonely but safe refuge of the bedroom, his heart beating at double time. Oh, Mother could not know, he had not met the Witch in months... 

'No, Mother.' Credence had tried to say it with a suitable amount of confusion in his voice, but it was difficult to pretend with Modesty staring straight at him from her seat at the dining table. 

Her stare had been unwavering and eerily penetrating, as if she knew exactly what Credence had done, the heresy he had committed. 

That was what Mother would expect, he knew. If her obedient children were to come across any witches - suspected or otherwise - they were to report them to her, so that she could add them to her list of sinners. 

Modesty's gaze had bore holes into his skin, even more so than Mother's suspicious stare. 

For a minute, Mother had stared at Credence, weighing him to be true or false. The boy imagined Justice's scales tipping. But Mother's scales had always been unbalanced when it came to Credence. 

He had lowered his head, nervously awaiting judgement and unable to meet Modesty's stare. 

Then, finally, after a torturously long silence, Mother had withdrawn her gaze and given her permission for Credence to retire to bed. 

But Modesty's relentless stare had followed him all the way up the staircase. 

And so Credence was forced to learn the art of discretion. 

He limited himself to only a few late night excursions every fortnight to prevent Mother from suspecting any further. Instead, he threw himself into his work as Mother's obedient little boy. 

Mother had decided to carry out her plans for organized gatherings to educate the masses about the existence of witches. Each day, she would order her children to hand out thick stacks of leaflets advertising the gatherings, under the name she had created - _The New Salem Philanthropic Society._

Credence resented their new errand. 

He cringed at the way passerbys' eyes lingered on his frame, on his worn winter coat and his monastic bowl cut. He hated the men and women who pushed past him with mean sneers or insults, but he detested the disbelieving, sympathetic glances cast at him more. 

Most of all, he loathed his own weakness, the way he couldn't stand up for himself in front of all those strangers on the streets. He loathed that he played into their own hackneyed, skewed views of him, with his stumbling and mumbling. 

The Witch would never cower in weakness like he did, daily. If he had his own magical powers, if he could become...

Finally, through the children's efforts or Mother's way with words or a combination of both, a date was set for The New Salem Philanthropic Society's first organized gathering. 

The location had been suggested by Chastity, and accepted by Mother with approval. 

Credence sometimes thought that out of all her children, the eldest daughter was the only one Mother really loved. Chastity had grown into the mold she had set for them all, and while Modesty was still too young to follow in her path, Credence... 

Credence feared that he had already failed Mother. 

But how could he vehemently denounce the very beings he aspired to become with conviction, or even pleasure, as he suspected Mother did? 

On the grand day, Mother, with a gleaming look in her eye, arrived at her stage. 

The Barebone hierarchy was clear; Mother stood, stern and proud, while her children clustered together behind her. 

Modesty, ever the unpredictable wild spirit, wore an excited expression that earned her a spot beside Chastity, who was stoic as ever. Mother's obedient little children, ready to carry out her mission as proud steeds of her Cause. 

Credence shuffled into his place behind his sisters. He had long since outgrew both Mother and her protege, Chastity, in height, but he remained in their shadow. In Mother's eyes, Credence's indifference to the Cause made him unworthy of a place near her. 

At least the small crowd gathered to hear Mother's speech did not seem to think of his position as a sign of disfavor.

While most curious eyes only slid past his frame to focus on Mother or his sisters, some lingered on the only man in the group, approving of his rear position as guarding the Barebone women. 

As much as he was grateful for the approval, Credence could only think miserably about how wrong those strangers were. 

When it came to handing out fliers, the new preoccupation of their ritualistic lives, Chastity never failed to live up to Mother's expectations. 

With only wiry wisps of her hair visible under a dark cowl, the eldest Barebone sibling dutifully walked the streets, driven by her own belief in the Cause as much as her obedience to Mother. 

Dressing in her usual loose black cloak hid her curves from leering eyes, but her evident femininity kept most New Yorkers who might have been rude to Credence civil. Hoodlums who persisted were met with a stern glare similar to Mother's own fear-inducing one. 

In every way, Chastity was the more efficient - more _useful_ \- Barebone sibling. 

Credence thought that maybe even Modesty, who was too young to roam the streets handing out fliers yet and only passed them to other children at Church, might be higher in Mother's regard in this, too. 

Now, as Mother launched into her speech, her stern, powerful voice growing into passionate exclamations, rousing her expectant audience below, Credence sank into his own thoughts.

He has thought about his feelings for the occupants of the House before. 

Their youngest, Modesty, was only so little. She had talked about her old family, sometimes, when Mother wasn't listening and it was just the three of them children. In those whispering, private moments stolen away from Mother's sight, Credence had felt his heart swell with unnamable emotion for his sisters. 

And then Chastity had grown up. 

She no longer laughed at Modesty's old jokes. She became solemn. One day Credence saw her and Mother conversing alone, and the way their stiff postures and tight lined lips looked so alike suddenly repulsed him. 

One day, Chastity simply stopped organizing and joining their little rebellious gatherings. 

Soon after that, Mother caught the younger Barebone siblings in the kitchen stealing cookies from the jar. There had been no cookies in the House ever since. 

Later, sobbing in her bed, Modesty had confessed that she did not understand why Mother had been so angry. Her old family had never been so harsh on her nor her siblings. 

Trying helplessly to comfort her, Credence, who had bore the brunt of the Punishment, had silently thought that he did not know if Mother's reaction had been normal, because he had never experienced anyone else's. 

After that, what they privately thought of as Chastity's betrayal had eventually drawn the younger siblings apart too. 

He did not know if he had forgiven Chastity now. 

Some parts of him resented her for leaving him to join ranks with Mother, though Chastity had never once laid hands on him the way their matriarch did. Others remembered her as one of the only constants in his life. 

No matter what, he knew he could not live without the House and its occupants. It was why he had not ran away yet. 

The other, permanent way of escape, he had rejected... Because of the Witch. 

He would wait. He _had_ to. The Witch wouldn't lie to him... Would he? 

Below him, the crowd was dispersing. The congregation had ended. As Mother turned to look at the Barebone children, she glanced in disapproval at the dazed boy, still deep in his thoughts. 

-

After that first meeting, only Chastity was ordered to accompany Mother to the New Salem Philanthropic Society's gathered meetings. The younger siblings were to utilize their time free from supervision responsibly, by which Mother meant either distributing more fliers for the Cause or Bible studies. 

Most of the time, Credence chose the former task, taking secret pride in defying Mother by roaming the streets in search of the Witch instead. 

But each fruitless excursion would make the seed of doubt in him grow - was the Witch really coming back for him? 

Sometimes Credence joined the gatherings, hoping against hope for a glimpse of the Witch, or even any other witches. 

Hiding behind Mother, he saw the way her words roused and angered the crowd. He could see fanatical lights of some of the regulars' eyes, while others hid their faces, perhaps wanting to keep their identity secret. 

Mother was no charismatic speaker; she was too stern, too hard for charm. 

But her arguments gave her Cause life. With each word, she blamed things, mundane and significant, on witches, cited photographic evidence she did not have on hand, and the crowd believed her. 

Credence envied her persuasion sometimes. 

Maybe if he were more persuasive, more charming, more lovable - and not this thin frame of insecurities and uselessness - Mother would listen when he begged her not to Punish him. 

As time went by, Credence grew to recognize the regulars in the crowds gathered for the New Salem Philanthropic Society. 

There were the newspaper journalists; those were easy, once he knew to watch out for the ones with fidgeting fingers and alert eyes, never leaving Mother's lips as they transcribed notes at lightning speed. Credence picked up some of the tabloids - the New Salem Philanthropic Society was not yet big enough to be making stories in major publications - and confirmed the identity of several journalist regulars. 

Then there were the true believers; those sucked in by Mother's fear-mongering words, who grew to become advocates of witch cleansing themselves. Credence avoided eye contact with those men and women. There was always a fanatical, dazed look in their eyes that chilled him to the core. 

Finally, there were the curious ones. 

They either lingered at the very ends of the crowd or blended themselves into the very middle, trying not to attract attention. They usually wore nondescript, dull clothing, but Credence had had enough time standing in on Mother's gatherings to pick out a few of these discreet regulars. 

There was a particular lady whom he found his gaze returning to. 

She wore dull colors, gravitating between shades of grey and brown. A beanie or hat of some sort always covered her hair, which was short and dark. 

These characteristics alone were shared by many in Mother's crowds, but there was a certain aura around the Lady that drew his eyes to her again, and again. It was the same strange certainty he had had about the Witch's identity. 

The regular Lady couldn't be a witch too... Could she? 

Still, whether because of his meeting with the Witch or mere instinct, Credence developed a partiality for the Lady. 

Sometimes, when his gaze brushed over her covered head, he could almost swear that she was looking back at him, too. 

Then one day, after Mother had ended her speech with a final call to exterminate witches, the Lady had made her way up towards the Barebones through the crowd. 

Credence's heart had skipped a beat. Usually, the Lady left the gatherings sticking close to other groups of listeners. _Maybe today would be the day..._

As the Lady walked closer, Credence's scattered thoughts were interrupted by Modesty. 'Ma, that's the woman that Credence is always staring at.' The little girl said, her child's voice lilting and oh-so-innocent. 

Mother turned towards him, a dangerous look in her eye. Credence knew that look; knew what Mother was assuming. 'Ma!' He protested weakly, eyes unable to meet hers for fear of igniting further anger at his retort. 

Mother's expression darkened. It was clear that she thought he had been meeting the Lady secretly all along.

'Chastity, escort your brother back home.' She ordered quietly, her tone brooking no argument. 

With a swift, obedient nod, the eldest Barebone turned expectantly towards her brother. 

Glancing over her shoulder anxiously at the Lady, still making her accession, one last time, Credence nodded in defeat. 'Yes, Ma.' 

Following behind Chastity, Credence risked a backwards glance, only to see Mother conversing with the Lady. Despair and fear assaulted him, only to be replaced by calm resignation. 

He hoped that the Lady would not be taken in by Mother's words. 

The incident remained engraved into his mind, because the day right after marked a change in Credence's life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Graves in the chapter :') this is turning out to be a much slower burn than I expected...


	4. Chapter 4

Their second meeting began much the same as the first; premeditated and enforced by the Witch. 

This time, however, Credence felt the anticipation in his heart overcome the residual fear. 

He sensed the Witch before he saw him. 

Scuttling down the streets at night, Credence had felt a looming sense of deja vu. By now, he was no stranger to the dark streets, but that night, something was different - he could sense the aura he had associated with the Witch creeping, nearby. 

Unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him - and it had in the past few months since the first meeting - Credence had not tried tracking down the aura as he had tried so many times in the past. 

In the end it didn't matter; the Witch was always the one who found _him._

The signature scarf floated into sight. His heart in his throat, Credence turned and _felt_ more than saw the Witch standing at the dead end of an alley. Beckoning, silently, with that magnetic, irresistible aura. 

The Witch did not speak, nor move to approach him. Perhaps he had learnt from their first meeting, when his touch had both calmed and spooked the boy. It didn't matter. 

Credence stepped into the alley without a second thought. 

-

'My boy,' the Witch started. 

Now that they were close, as close as they could be without touching noses, Credence could see that the Witch was anxious. The man hid it well, but Credence had grown perceptive in these few months at Mother's gatherings. 

Quietly, he wished that the Witch could draw peace and comfort from Credence as the boy did from the man. 

Anxiety bubbled below the surface of the Witch's aura, distressing Credence. But although the boy wanted to alleviate the Witch's discomfort, he did not know how to speak his thoughts without offending the man. 

After a few seconds of silence, in which both brooded over their own thoughts, the Witch broke the silence. 

'The shadows draw too close. _Lumos_.' 

A tingle chased goosebumps up Credence's arms. He felt something inside him lurch in reaction to whatever magic the Witch was doing. 

And magic it was. 

Instantly, a warm light illuminated the space between them. Reaching out towards the tingle of energy he sensed, hesitantly, Credence closed his hand around what felt like a wooden stick. 

Power thrummed in the object. The thing inside Credence churned again, this time much more violently. 

He knew what it was. 'A wand,' Credence whispered, a mixture of reverence and apprehension in his voice. Years of teachings had taught him to fear, but his senses ached to touch. 

As if his words had enhanced the spell, the light at the tip of the wand grew brighter, illuminating the Witch's spell. 

For the first time, Credence looked upon the Witch's face in full clarity. 

The warm light softened what might have been a hard face. Bushy brows and dark hair greying at the temples framed a solemn expression, but Credence saw the anxiety flickering in his depthless eyes. 

He might have been younger or older than Mother; Credence could not tell. What he did know now was that the Witch's appearance would never have affected his opinion of the man regardless. 

With the seductive promise of magic he represented, the Witch was his savior. 

And then the Witch spoke again, his mouth forming words that ensnared Credence in their spell. 

' _,' came the command, and immediately, the warm light streamed out to touch the tip of Credence's outstretched finger._

The tingling sensation that had accompanied every touch of the Witch's swelled to a fizzling ball of energy. Where Credence had expected to feel pain, he only felt the comforting warmth of a fireplace. 

In dazed wonder, the boy watched as the sparks at the end of the wand turned red, green, blue, in succession. 

Then the Witch lifted his wand, and Credence's eyes followed to see drops of snowflakes falling in the late-January night sky. 

For an immeasurable amount of time, The Witch cast what must have been spell after spell, enchanting the boy, who found his eyes bound to the magic in the air, spellbound. 

For the first time in forever, Credence found himself forgetting all about her curfew, her Punishment, even Mother herself. 

At some point in time, the Witch started moving, and Credence followed blindly, eyes too wide and filled with the sight of wondrous, fantastic things. 

As he turned corners in the twisted labyrinth of alleys, led by the magic and its creator, the strangest illusion unfolded in Credence's thoughts: that the Witch was leading him everywhere and now where. 

Then the inevitable, undeniable truth - that Credence would follow him anywhere; the Witch only had to ask. 

And so the Witch did. 

The adventure ended with a start as Credence opened his eyes to see that they were back where they were, in the dead-end alleyway. The pressure of the wand tip pressed against his forehead disappeared as the Witch lifted it away. The magic dimmed to the form of the original light at the wand's tip. 

'Credence,' the Witch began again. His voice sounded the same as before, steady, important. It was a voice that made people listen. _A talker, like Mother._

For a moment, Credence was incredulous at how calm he remained. Then he remembered that the Witch must do these magical things every day in his life. The thought made the thing inside him ache. 

'Yes, sir.' He answered obediently. 

'Credence, I need you to help me. You're the only one I can rely on.' 

His heart leapt at the thought of the Witch needing him, too. But what could the man possibly want from him that he himself could not already do? Something sounded off. There was something that the Witch wasn't telling him, he knew instinctively. 

Still, the promise of magic pulsed, triumphing above all else. 

'Sir,' Credence began, throat dry at the Witch's impassive, penetrating stare. His thoughts were still spinning, spiraling in the memory of their adventure. Disconnected and disorientated from reality, he could no longer tell if it had been real or an illusion. 

He longed for the warmth the man had offered, but he knew instinctively that he had to use his words. Always an equal exchange. They always wanted his words, his submission...

'Sir, how... How may I help?' _... They always wanted something in return._

He caught a flash of surprise in the Witch's eyes at the question. Then, finally, a small smile spread across his face. 

'It's Mister Graves to you, boy.' 

The Witch - _Mister Graves_ \- relayed to him his task. 

'I want to help you, Credence. I want to bring you into our world, but integrating a kinless, untaught wizard like you will not be easy.' The man explained. 

Credence licked his dry lips. 'Will... Will you teach me then, Mister Graves?' 

The name already tasted so familiar on his tongue. 

Graves' smile was reassuring, perfected, seamless. 'I would like to, boy. But even with my influence it will not be easy. You are grown; you will not fit in well at the wizarding school.' 

Credence bit his lip at the direct words, unable to look the man in the eye. Mister Graves was only telling the truth, but it still hurt. 

'But when I complete this job... I'll be able to call in a few favors. Will you help me, Credence? Will you help me help you?' Graves continued. There was a paternal, expectant look in his eyes. 

Almost without thought, the boy nodded his head. Yes. He would do anything if it meant leaving the House and Mother, if it meant obtaining the power to survive independently. 

Graves' eyes regarded him sternly. Use your words. Credence felt a lump stick in his throat as he heard the phrase in Mother's voice. Stuttering, he replied, 'Y-yes, Mister Graves.' 

He could not have known the words would alter the course of his life forever. 

And maybe whatever twisted thing that would grow between them had been premeditated from their first meeting. 

But then, there, Credence was still young and his immortal soul yet light. He would realize later that what Mother taught him to see as sin was yet untouched grace. 

Only ever too late did he realize things. 

\---

'I want you to help me find a child, Credence.' 

'A child?' The boy repeated, softly. Looking into Graves' face, he saw that the anxiety had diminished. He wondered if he had imagined it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An abrupt ending(?) Graves is a little different now... if he were to have been replaced at some point, hypothetically, it would be this moment, no?


	5. Chapter 5

He saw the Lady only once more. 

She had approached him in her usual garb, easily recognizable by then, before a gathering. Claiming to seek guidance in the Cause, she had asked for a flier, and Credence had handed it to her. 

The only problem with this memory was that he could never decide what had happened next. 

The clearest, most rational scenario his mind remembered was the Lady taking the flier and disappearing into the streets after the gathering, never to return. 

But there were discrepancies. 

Why would the Lady approach him, only to never return again? Had he disappointed her somehow, said something that he could no longer remember? 

Or... Had something more sinister happened?

Sometimes, Credence could swear that the Lady had asked for his name, and that she had returned the gesture. But no matter how hard he tried to recollect this memory, he could never manage to salvage the Lady's maiden name from the fragments in his mind. 

Once, he had risked suspicion to ask Mother if she remembered the Lady. 

Mother had frowned, as if a provocative memory taunted her at the edge of her mind, but had ultimately dismissed his inquiry. 

'Nothing more than a foolish woman, who could not see the truth. Now get to those fliers, boy.' She had said, and that was that. 

Still, Credence sensed that the same spell of muddled memory that had ensnared him had Mother under its hold, equally. 

And then there were the dreams. 

They were strange dreams, the like of which Credence had never experienced, even after the worst of Mother's Punishments. 

He dreamt of darkness and destruction, but what scared him most was that the origin of it all came from _within_ him. It had always been within him, for as long as he could remember.

The Thing, as Credence had long since taken to calling it, lurched and ached inside him in his dreams. He imagined it was like standing in the centre of a hurricane; being propelled in all directions at once, while being helpless to control it.

It took the shape and form of his deepest, darkness, most shameful desires; every sinful thing he thought Mother had successfully beaten out of him returned in his dreams, tormenting him with agonizing, impossible fantasies. 

He dreamt of being an equal to Chastity, standing stern and firm beside Mother. Worse, he dreamt of standing up to Mother, denouncing her Cause and leaving the House once and for all. 

He dreamt of Lady striking down Mother with her wand, and then questioning him about the scars Mister Graves had forgotten to heal. Her feminine voice, her concerned tone; so different from Mother's and even Mister Graves'. The feeling of her hand on his arm always seemed so real...

He dreamt of learning magic, of being taught by Mister Graves... 

_Mister Graves..._

But those were not new fantasies, and weighed on his conscience less. 

The worst - best - dreams came in the form of Mister Graves. 

He dreamt of the man cupping his cheeks in his large, warm hands as he so often did in reality, and the tingling touches made the Thing sigh in respite, momentarily sated. But then the dreams would take a turn. 

He would dream of Mister Graves leaning ever closer, until finally their lips touched and Credence was swallowed by burning flames of passion. If it were in reality - though it had never happened in reality - he would have torn away, Mother's words a branding flame. 

_You will love no woman but your wife._

Credence did not dare consider what Mother would think of him loving another man. 

But in his dark, tormented dreams, the Thing twisted Credence's thoughts until he found himself surrendering to Mister Graves, always, _always._

In his dreams Credence clutched at the lapels of Mister Graves' coat and twisted the two ends of his scarf around his own neck, until he was choking on his darkness and sins. 

He always woke with a choked gasp, a shameful hardness in his pants that would not abate until he forced his eyes shut and remembered the blinding pain of Mother's Punishments. 

Lately the Thing had grown stronger. 

Its hold over him had extended to the waking realm. Sometimes when he looked at Mother, the Thing would surge within his pounding blood, willing him to lash out. Credence's fear had always overpowered the Thing, but now it was steadily growing stronger. 

He did not know how long he could retain control of the Thing. It scared him infinitely more that he did not care. 

It was Mister Graves, it had to be. 

The darkness in him that he had glimpsed and had terrified him at their first meeting was reflected in the growing strength of the Thing. 

His appearance had thrown Credence's life into disarray, but oh, what a fantastic misfortune it was. 

Deep in his heart, Credence knew that he would never trade his night's peace for Mister Graves beside him. 

The dark visions that plagued him in his sleep left their mark in the waking realm in the form of dark bags under his eyes. Credence glimpsed the unholy marks in the mirror, but did not care much for their removal. 

Even without them, he had not been desirable; it did not matter now. 

Mother and the other inhabitants of the House might have realized his deteriorating condition, but none said anything out loud. At the dining table, Modesty's stares were as harrowing as always. 

But Mister Graves did. 

'Credence.' The man said, his tone soft but insistent. It was a tone perfected over the months, one Mister Graves had learnt in order to not spook Credence. _For_ him. He knew he should not trouble Mister Graves so, that he should feel apologetic, but all he felt was a warmth deep in his chest. 

Mister Graves had done it for _him_. Him alone and no one else. 

Warm fingers brushed the darkened skin below his eyes. With any other person Credence would have cried out, flinched away. But not from Mister Graves. Credence had learnt how to react to his tingling touches in return. 'Good boy,' the man muttered soothingly.

Always, an equal exchange. 

The tingling sensation Credence has come to association with Mister Graves magical touches danced across his skin. He did not have to check to know that he was healed. 

'Thank you, sir.' Credence whispered. He knew what Mister Graves wanted in exchange for this, but he had brought nothing but disappointment again. Guilt, heavy in his heart, made his voice small as he admitted, 'I'm sorry, Mister Graves. I couldn't find anyone...' 

A pause. Silence reigned in the dark alley. 

Then Mister Graves was shushing the soft whimpers that he didn't even know he had been emitting, his warm fingers smoothing over Credence's cheek. 'Shh, shh... All that matters is that you're trying... And you are trying, aren't you, my boy?' 

Credence nodded fiercely, wary that any delay would be seen as lying. 'Yes, Mister Graves.' _His touch was so warm..._

The Thing inside him churned, enraged, powerful, powerless. He knew that it hated him for his submission. 

But what could he do? 

Only Mister Graves would touch him willingly. Only Mister Graves would put his tender, warm hands on his skin, his touch tingling on his scars as they were healed by his magic. 

Only Mister Graves truly loved him. 

Even if it was only for the right price.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update;; the writer's block has finally been defeated

'I can't... I can't do this...' 

A stuttered, whispered plea in the darkness.

-

Mother's shadow loomed above his hunched form, backing up desperately into the wall despite the knowledge that he had nowhere left to hide. 

'Credence.' 

The heavy, disappointed voice renewed the struggling. 'Please... Please Ma, I'm sorry, I can't...' The boy begged softly, tears brimming in his wide eyes. His hands clenched into fists hanging powerless at his sides. 

He couldn't raise a hand against Mother. That was wrong, it was disrespectful and monstrous. 

The Thing inside him had different ideas. 

It raged and lashed out at Credence's desperate containment of it. He imagined the Thing as a dark, swirling mass that was constantly expanding in volume; and he, the ironically powerless host, with his hands pressed down at the corners of the lid containing the Thing - his own self - shaking, shaking with each shuddering roaring attempt at escape. 

'Please... No...' He muttered nonsensically, fingers twitching. He scarcely knew what he was saying himself. 

The dim lights overhead twitched, but the violent, unpredictable flickering only made Credence even more twitchy and nervous, shrinking into himself. 

Electricity problems weren't uncommon in the House. Most of the time, when donations weren't rolling in, Credence privately wondered where the money to support the Cause and the House was coming from. 

His only consolation was that with Mother's unmoving enforcement of Christianity, Chastity - or even himself, or Modesty - were never in danger of being forced into what Credence knew some young girls and boys on the streets sold for bread. 

It was only another thing to be grateful to Mother for. 

Yet, as Credence squirmed under her stare, stern, threatening, unyielding, he could not find it in himself to be grateful for much. 

Mother had taught him that to be grateful for this too; her lashes and cutting words. They were his divine Punishment, carried out by her mortal vessel, to deliver him from sin.

But while the blinding pain of each Punishment session blocked out all thoughts of sin, the blasphemous, horrifyingly pleasant suggestions his mind conjured returned again and again. 

It was the hope that Mister Graves had endowed upon him. 

And even as each thought of the older man sunk him deeper into sin, they delivered him from his unbearable reality with dangerous dreams. 

Such was the magic Mister Graves had worked on him. 

Still shuddering, but with a strange calm having settled over his flighty fear, Credence let the useless pleas die on his lips. 

He held out his belt with trembling fingers, no longer knowing if they shook with the effort to restrain himself from realizing his terrible fantasies, or instinctual, habitual fear. 

There would be no reassurance, no sense of peace after penance paid, after this, he knew. 

Still, Credence closed his eyes as Mother stepped closer. 

Now, always, was the quiet before the storm, the still before the quickening of gathering violence and ferocity. 

Swiftly, the first lash rained down, forever dreaded, always unexpected. 

Today, there would be no disobedience, no retaliation. The Thing was momentarily tamed. 

Credence prayed both for it to always be so, and for change.

-

'Please... please.' Credence muttered fervently, a growing, feverish light in his dark eyes. 

As with all of his pleas, Credence never truly expected pardon. The most he could hope for was a lessening of his sentence, of the disappointed hand meting out his Punishment becoming an appeased one. 

'I can't... I can't, please...' He whispered, his soft, scared words repeated like a broken record. 

'Shh, shh,' Mister Graves' low voice comforted, silencing, benevolent. 

His warm hands smoothed over heated skin. With each reassuring syllable, each tingling touch, he both calmed and stoked the fire burning under Credence's skin. 

The rage of the Thing simmered, and every cell in Credence's mortal body ached for release; even knowing that such an outburst could very well burn him, too, into ashes. 

Maybe he could be reborn into someone that Mother and Mister Graves wanted and needed and loved, then. 

Maybe then he wouldn't mind combusting in torturous hellfire. 

There was a softness in the Thing's rage, seething holes of Credence's weaknesses and fears. When the anger simmered in him, it was in part anger at his own failure to protect himself that fueled the dark energy. 

When Credence had first started pleading under Mother's Punishments, it had been out of pure fear of pain. 

These days, the pain had become such a constant part of his life that their fresh welts had become old wounds. He had never managed to make them hurt less, and so Credence pleaded for something else now, most days. 

He begged for the courage and strength to contain the anger, the darkness, the Thing within him, though he could never find the magical words. 

'Shh...' A warm thumb pressed down on Credence's cold lips. 

A terrifying spark soared in his chest. 

'You can. You're a good boy, aren't you? You'll be a good boy for me, won't you, Credence?' Mister Graves continued, his words a compelling force. 

The thumb had moved on to join a hand cradling his cheek, but Credence leaned into the touch, needy and desperate for more. 'Yes,' he mumbled, dazed. 'Yes, anything, anything for you, Mister Graves.' 

And just like that, the warm rage of the Thing melted away, overwhelmed by something hotter and no less torturous because of its damning pleasure - the torch of his own wretched desire. 

There would be no reassurance, no sense of peace after penance paid after this, either. 

Nevertheless, Credence closed his eyes as Mister Graves leaned impossibly closer. 

Now was the anxious tranquility before a hurricane, the still before the quickening of gathering anticipation and desire. 

Slowly, Mister Graves pressed an absolving kiss to Credence's forehead. The warmth from his touch spread in his dazed mind, all the way to his swelling chest. 

Today, there would be no action, no initiatives. His need was momentarily sated. 

Credence prayed both for it to always be so, and for change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter: things begin to heat up :') that's probably not a good thing for both Graves and Credence...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) hmu on tumblr @ohmyvalar pls I need frens to sin w :')


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